Trust
by HoVis
Summary: Sherlock Holmes questions his own trustworthiness and wonders at Watson's loyalty. Oneshot.


**A/N:** Hello everyone! It has been far too long since I have written fanfiction, so I hope that this short one-shot, written from Holmes' perspective, is up to scratch. It was inspired by the BBC interpretation of "The Hound of the Baskervilles", shown a few days ago on BBC One. Slightly apocryphal, I must admit, but the question of "trust" which kept batting between Holmes and Watson the whole way through was wonderful. I hope you all enjoy this little offering.

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, great man that he was. Is.

**Trust**

Trust is a very strange thing, and one perhaps that I have spent far too little time wondering over. It is trust, after all, that gives criminals a chance to commit their crimes... a man can ingratiate himself into a family's _trust_ before stealing their best silver. Trust, broken trust, can be a motive for a crime. I have solved many a murder case where the crime was committed in a heat of passion, regretted later, after a disagreement between two people who until then had been the firmest of friends.

Trust between friends. That is a strange thing as well, and one that I know I have not considered before. Did I consider it as unnecessary as the question of the sun orbiting around the moon – or whichever way it is?

Trust is, I think, embodied in the persona of Watson. Trust and loyalty are, after all, bound very closely together. A man who inspires trust will also inspire loyalty. Do I inspire trust?

Trust, I suppose, in my professional abilities. Inspector Lestrade, I know, places far more weight on my abilities than perhaps he should, rather than trying to develop his own. The frightened women and the disturbed and alienated men who come to my door have, I should hope, some small amount of _trust_ that I will be able to solve their difficulties. But what about trust in me, myself, I? Do the people who run to me for assistance have any trust in me as a man, or just as a detective? Does Watson trust in more than just my detection?

I do not know. I fear now, writing this, that I have always taken my Watson somewhat for granted. Have I done so? He has, after all, no particular talent in terms of the art of detection and logic... but he is trustworthy. When a woman comes into Baker Street she will look to me for the solution of her practical difficulties... and yet, I seem to feel, it is to Watson whom she looks for sympathy and steadfastness. Watson, I now come to believe, is the sort of man who inspires loyalty.

Perhaps Watson would say that a trustworthy man is the man who is constant, one whose actions can be predicted by other men. Watson is certainly constant, and predictable to the very dull last.

Alas! Watson, I hope you never read these pages, for I am underrating your qualities somewhat. I feel that, once I am done with this somewhat shameful piece of self-indulgence, my hand might slip towards the fire, and let this paper drop and burn to ashes there.

_Is_ Watson predictable? I like to think that I can know what he will do next – I would hardly be a very great detective if I could not – and yet sometimes, sometimes he can surprise me. With his dear Mary! I can remember seeing his glance at her, and thinking perhaps that something might come of it, but I scarcely dreamt that he would take her to himself in such a dramatic manner. I knew him less well then, and I know now that, once in a while, calm, stolid, _constant_ Watson can burst out with the most surprising displays of passion. It is the _when_ that I could not – still cannot – make any attempt to predict.

If I were predictable I would be the very worst detective in London. If I were constant, the criminals would eventually learn my ways, and hoodwink me. If I were in love, then I would let that love blind me, and my hands would stumble as I untangle the warped skeins of each and every case. If I were Watson, I would fail miserably in all my attempts.

Trust. It all comes down to trust. I can trust Watson to bring his revolver when it is needed, and I can _trust_ him to somehow draw out of me the solution of each and every dazzling crime. True, I can do it without him – but somehow his presence helps to sharpen my intellect, and his questions – stupid and bumbling as they may be – provide me with the light I need to see into the darkness of an unsolved crime. Why this man? Is it simply because an actor performs better with an audience than without? Or is it simply because he is Watson, and no one else?

And now, the crux of the matter, the very question which made me take up my pen in a manner far more becoming of the scholarly Watson than myself. Am _I_ trusted? Not as a detective, for I have no doubt there. But no... does Watson trust our friendship? It is not something, I know, that I give easily, and as he frequently reminds me I can indeed be the most infuriating man in all of England. But poor Watson, he does not understand – I do not keep my secrets, my ideas about a case, from him out of any lack of trust in him. Had a wife I would not tell her all I thought – spreading one's thoughts lends weakness to them, and speaking an unsure suspicion gives it weight it should perhaps not have had. I am a better detective when I keep my mind as my own... and yet, I fear, a far worse friend.

At first, I liked to pander to my own ego by saying to myself that Watson trusted me as a dog trusted his master, but such a thought is unworthy of my fine companion. It would lessen me, as well, to say that such blind devotion is all I can inspire. I hope I am a great enough _man_ – not just a detective – that Watson can trust me as the firm, intelligent man that he is. That trust, I think, would be worth more to me than all the solved and brilliant cases in England.

There. I have said it. Now eat these words, flames, before Watson returns, for heavens sake.

888

**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed. Please review!


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